


Inhale

by Verayne



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Cannibalism, EoT AU, I blame what can only be described as RTD's headcanon for this, M/M, Master POV, Smut, not two tags I ever thought I'd be putting together but here we are, the Doctor may or may not have a danger kink, the Master is literally the black widow of hookers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25960891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verayne/pseuds/Verayne
Summary: The Master holds shameless eye contact, tilting his head a little in invitation, until the human's smile gets wider with faint disbelief. His gaze flicks down over him as he washes up, keeps looking as he shakes his hands off and wipes his palms on his coat. He goes still for a moment, apparently in consideration."How much?"The Master curls a slow smile, pleased as he feels the trap starting to close. "Whatever you think I'm worth," he answers offhand, not wanting to waste time with haggling. Not to mention he's not exactly clear on the going rate for down-on-their-luck hookers, these days.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 111





	Inhale

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Inspired by [this musing from RTD](https://veraynes-blog.tumblr.com/post/624789953765867520/tfw-youre-introduced-to-a-hyper-specific) about what the Master was doing immediately after he was resurrected. While nothing explicitly gory happens in the fic, it does deal with the Master's cannibalism and is fairly dark, in mood and concept. Morally not good, shall we say. He has dark thoughts related to the aforementioned cannibalism throughout. 
> 
> There's also a smut scene which, given the context, is also morally not good, and has an ever so slight feeling of dub-con (although I honestly couldn't tell you in which direction). 
> 
> Jail for me for writing this, basically. 🙃

* * *

The smell of peroxide burns at the inside of the Master's nose and the back of his throat as he pushes himself upright from the sink, flinching slightly as cold water slides down the middle of his back beneath the ratty red T-shirt he's wearing. The overhead strip-lighting hurts his eyes, searing neon-white and flickering occasionally, the electric hum a constant irritant on his senses. The sight of his reflection in the cracked glass above the row of sinks is alien to him, unfamiliar, but at this point he's glad of it. He doesn't want to look like himself, right now. He is not himself.

His hair is almost white now, brittle and unrecognisable from the dark, neat style he'd grown accustomed to with this regeneration. The bottle of stolen dye lies discarded somewhere behind him on the floor, used impulsively when he realised that being recognised with the face he made famous in his current state wouldn't exactly be ideal. He sneers slightly at his reflection. The Master of disguise, _stuck_ looking like the old Prime Minister. The irony is unbearable.

Alone in the public bathroom - well, for the most part - he takes a breath and tries again to gather his shredded nerves, his tenuous sense of self. His hands are shaking as he grips the rim of the sink, fingers red and sore from the bleach. He turns the tap off, swipes his palm over the water trickling down his forehead and temples, reaching up further to scrub the wet, blond strands into disarray. Something about the look makes him seem younger, he thinks resentfully. Although, for his current purposes, he supposes that might work out for the best. His eyes are fever-bright and bloodshot, and it’s difficult to meet his own reflected gaze.

He's dying.

He is _so_ hungry.

The sensation racks him again, cramping his guts so he has to curl forward, catching himself on the sinks. He holds a scream behind his teeth as pain rips through him, the sensation of his insufficiently resurrected body failing to contain the raging energies of a Time Lord. It manifests as hunger like he's never imagined before, sets his mind on fire with it. Rupturing artron energy flares beneath his skin, burning, and he watches his reflection with horrified fascination as it illuminates the bones and blood of him. He looks a vile, deathly thing. A corpse that doesn't have the decency to acknowledge it's dead already.

Slowly, the attack recedes. He drags in a shuddering breath and carefully straightens, swaying a step backwards. Artron energy continues to spark at the core of him, the thin material of his shirt unsuccessful at hiding the unnatural flashes of light from beneath. He can see the brief, vague shadows of his ribs and beating hearts.

Swearing under his breath, he ducks down and grabs the thick, oversized hoodie from where he'd tossed it earlier onto the tiled floor. It smells of dirt and blood as he pulls it hurriedly down over himself, concealing the injured light. The whole room had smelled of blood, before, but the peroxide fumes and mildew have gone a way to covering it for now. He glances furtively at the closed door of the far cubicle, checking again that the red mess which lies behind it remains safely out of view.

There's a faint vibration in the room around him, the dull thunder of another train leaving the nearby platform and speeding off through the warren of subterranean tunnels which surround him. He's gone to ground like an animal, hurt and hiding down here in the dark; a slave to the baser instincts that rule him in his damaged state. He tilts his head sharply as he listens to the mechanical rumble, a throbbing undercurrent to the beat of the drums. It's late, not many commuters travelling at this time of night, but if he's lucky -

And yes, he is, because beneath the rhythmic snap of traintracks there comes the sound of footsteps. He closes his eyes on an inhale, trying to ignore the acrid smells of bleach and rot and bodily fluids that he's surrounded by, pleased when he finds the warm, living scent of human approaching.

He is still so _hungry_.

He shakes himself, rolls his shoulders in readiness as he turns away from his reflection, lounging back against the row of sinks. Sad state though it is, he doesn't think he has the energy to spare for a chase or any real fight, in the condition he's in. No, he needs a trap. A lure. He needs to gorge himself, and with as little expended effort as he can manage. After he's eaten, he thinks, it will be better then. One more desperate meal and he can actually go hunting, instead of waiting here hopeful for whatever comes his way.

The door opens. The human that enters is well-dressed but disheveled, looking like a businessman after some kind of office party or night out. He smells faintly of alcohol and seems unfocused around the eyes as he notices the Master standing there. Perfect, really. The man blinks, then nods awkward greeting. The Master doesn't say anything, but watches pointedly as the human meanders his way over to the urinals. He continues watching the unsteady performance of unzipping and relieving himself, lip curling slightly with distaste, impatient for it to be done.

"It's rude to stare," the businessman calls, glancing back over one shoulder.

"I'm not a very polite person," he admits easily enough, although it's an effort to keep his voice level. His mouth is watering, stomach churning with sickly hunger that he can't stand.

The human huffs amusement, turning back to finish his business. His whistles faintly as he does so, possibly to break the silence, and the Master thinks he'd be tempted to kill him anyway just for the breach of bathroom etiquette.

Finally, zipping up, he turns and wanders over towards the sinks. He kicks the empty bleach bottle as he passes, eyeing the Time Lord with a curious half-smile as he wets his hands. The Master holds shameless eye contact, tilting his head a little in invitation, until the human's smile gets wider with faint disbelief. His gaze flicks down over him as he washes up, keeps looking as he shakes his hands off and wipes his palms on his coat. He goes still for a moment, apparently in consideration.

"How much?"

The Master curls a slow smile, pleased as he feels the trap starting to close. "Whatever you think I'm worth," he answers offhand, not wanting to waste time with haggling. Not to mention he's not exactly clear on the going rate for down-on-their-luck hookers, these days.

The businessman scoffs, clearly thinking he's struck lucky. He wavers a few more seconds, the shadow of a smirk lingering around his mouth, and then steps decisively into the Master's space.

The Time Lord finds himself crowded back against the sinks, cold porcelain digging into the small of his back and a stranger's hands on his waist. His skin crawls at the contact, and it's a struggle to keep his expression neutral. He turns his face quickly aside, lifts his chin towards one of the remaining open cubicles. "In there."

He intends to sidestep neatly out of reach, lead the way towards the preferred security of a confined space - but the human stops him with a grip on his upper arm. He's squinting suspiciously, trying to rally alcohol-soaked senses. He actually has the audacity to lift a hand and take rough hold of the Master's jaw, tilting his face up for closer examination.

"Look familiar," he comments with a frown. "Look like... like that guy -"

The Master jerks himself free, barely resisting the urge to lash out there and then as his temper flares. "Yeah, I get that a lot," he manages to mutter, haltingly, fighting to control himself. This close, he's nearly overwhelmed by the smells of... of blood and sweat and heat and salt and alcohol - and _he is so hungry_! He sways forward unconsciously, drawing a breath past his teeth as he anticipates the glorious, ravenous, all too fleeting satisfaction he's about to feel.

The human pushes clumsily at his shoulder, trying to urge him downwards. "Here. Do it here."

He desperately wants to laugh at the surreal, degenerate ridiculousness of the whole situation, can feel it building as hysteria in his throat. He ducks his head to try and contain it, curls his hands in the man's coat lapels to keep him in place. The human presses up against him, beginnings of an erection obvious against his hip.

The door to the bathroom abruptly opens again, and the Master feels a flash of blind rage at yet another needless delay.

"Fuck off," his obliging partner snaps for him, at the same moment. "Occupied."

There's a prolonged, tense pause, during which the Time Lord waits impatiently for the sound of someone shuffling out again so he can do what he needs to. He's already trying to figure out how he gets them in that cubicle, how he -

"Trust me," drawls a horrendously familiar voice, "I am doing you the biggest favour anyone will ever do you."

The Master goes completely still as slow, ice-cold shame slides down his spine. He can't bring himself to look, staring fixedly at the fluttering pulse point of the man in front of him instead. He is _painfully_ aware of the position he remains in, trapped against the grotty sinks with filthy human hands still on him. His chest feels tight, the vast weight of his humiliation slowly settling over him making it difficult to breathe.

The Doctor stands in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. His head is ducked, mouth pressed thin and tight as though in acknowledgement of the awkwardness. He flicks a glance up as he rocks on the sides of his trainers, quirks an eyebrow at the two of them.

The Master closes his eyes and considers letting himself expire on the spot.

"Oi mate, what did I just say?" The human pulls away from him and takes a step towards the other Time Lord, apparently set on confrontation.

To his faint surprise, the Doctor's demeanour changes almost instantly. He moves further into the room, suddenly at his full height, expression turning glacial as he steps to meet the challenge. His hands don't leave his pockets, but he doesn't hesitate in getting up close, tilting his head back and glaring down the length of his nose.

"Get out," the Doctor instructs, voice hard with barely contained disdain.

The human wavers as he finds himself being stared down, backing up again and looking faintly confused by the turn of events. He shoots an incredulous look back at the Master - who only continues to pretend he doesn't see the entire spectacle - before sneering at them both.

"Fine. Not worth it anyway." He starts for the door, and the Doctor circles with him to maintain his intent glare, moving until he's positioned between the Master and the rapidly retreating human.

The door slams as it closes, leaving them in silence. The Doctor doesn't turn around immediately, and the Master stays exactly where he is, as though his stillness could possibly avert further scrutiny.

"Are you alright?"

He breathes soundless, cynical amusement at the question, swallowing to ensure his voice will stay steady before he speaks. "I rather think your insipid heroics are pointed in the wrong direction, there, don't you?"

The Doctor twitches guiltily, finally pivoting to look at him. His expression is wide open again, full of astonishment and concern and perplexity, a little wild around the eyes as he studies the Master, taking in the state of him. "You're... here. You _died_."

The Master sighs tiredly. "It didn't take."

"I- How?!" The Doctor shakes his head, brows drawn up in bemusement. He steps closer, reaching for him like he wants to test what he's seeing.

That finally breaks the stillness, at least. The Master darts away, instinctively putting distance between them. For a second he's nearly overcome with horror at the thought of the other Time Lord getting near, the thought of him seeing, touching, _sensing_ in any way the wrongness of him as he is right now.

The Doctor shows his palm in wordless surrender, stopping where he is. Instead he turns his attention to the room around them, nose scrunching with distaste. "What the hell is this? What are you even... _doing_ down here?"

The Master doesn't allow his gaze to drift to the closed cubicle. "What are _you_ doing here?" he counters instead. "You certainly weren't invited." He's almost more annoyed that he didn't sense the other Time Lord coming, and missed the chance to prepare himself accordingly.

The Doctor arches a judgmental eyebrow. "Yeah, sorry, looked like I interrupted a private moment there." He doesn't sound at all sorry, as it happens, but rather vindictively pleased with himself.

"Just trying out your favourite interspecies perversion," he bites back, spiteful.

"What, didn't get enough of it last time?"

The Master flinches, caught off guard. The reminder of Lucy, his vicious Lucy, strikes him like a slap: visceral memories of sex and laughter and a bullet wound and pain and being dragged back to this pathetic mockery of living. He feels his expression go slack, grabs at the sink to brace himself.

"I... I'm sorry, I didn't -" The Doctor looks faintly shocked by the strength of his reaction, wavering helplessly with the obvious need to reach for him again. He hesitates, gaze getting sharp and clinical. "You're not alright." It's said with conviction, this time.

The Master rolls his head on his shoulders and closes his eyes, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He starts to turn away, restless, but he doesn't trust the Doctor at his back so he spins back around just as quick. "Not your business," he snaps, defensive. His fingers tap out a beat against the side of his leg, one-two-three-four. There's a racing, panicky feeling building in his chest that he can't put a name to, but he knows he doesn't want the other man here, doesn't want him to know, to comment.

Oblivious, the Doctor inches forward. "Let me help."

"Fuck _off_."

The other Time Lord just regards him dubiously, scowling, like he's being presented with a problem he finds personally offensive.

The Master dismisses him with a sneer. The anxious sensation is getting worse, and he realises it's because he can feel the steady rise of artron energy cresting in himself again. The Doctor's standing between him and the door, keeping him trapped, so he can't even hide what's happening. He tries to hold it off, but there's nothing he can do. Another burning flare of energy ruptures out of him, blinding, agonising.

The Doctor visibly flinches back in shock, wide-eyed. The Master growls through it, feeling heat build dangerously between the clench of his teeth. He staggers back against the wall and slides down it, giving in to the urge to curl around the damage with his knees up against his chest and his head against them, trying to hold himself together. He can't see for the light searing through his skull, and knows he looks obscene, ghastly, as it happens.

It passes, eventually. The Master remains exactly where he is in the sudden, quiet stillness. He doesn't want to look up. Doesn't want to see himself witnessed, like this.

He hears the Doctor take a shaky breath, creep another inch closer to him. " _Please_ let me help. You're burning up your own lifeforce."

The Master snarls, provoked enough by the inane comment that he lifts his head to glare. "And there was me thinking it was a particularly bad hangover..."

Crouching down on his haunches a safe distance away, the other man watches him with an expression full of infuriating sympathy. "What happened?"

"Oh, you know how it goes. Died. Resurrected. Wife who murdered me decided to sabotage that, too. And here we are." He gives a sickly-sweet smile, content to breeze past the more sordid details, and continues his conversational tone as he thinks to add, "How've _you_ been?"

The Doctor's mouth twitches upwards, just slightly. His gaze drifts as he actually seems to consider the question for a few moments, before he tips his head with vague modesty. "Met Agatha Christie. She was brilliant."

The Master plasters on polite interest. "Oh yeah? How is the old girl? Feisty, from what I remember."

The other man lets out a scoff at the implication, before his expression drops as the Master twists a smirk.

Annoyed, the Doctor glares at him appraisingly, forcing a return to the matter at hand. "Alright, so your resurrection went wrong." His eyes narrow as he tracks the story to its logical conclusion. "So you - what, hid yourself here? _Why_?"

And there it is yet again, the Doctor's inescapable curiosity, refusing to be sidetracked. He stands up, frowning as he glances around the room, gaze lingering on the discarded bottle of bleach a little distance away before continuing his critical examination. From his huddled spot on the floor, the Master almost holds his breath as he watches the performance. He knows exactly what's about to happen, doesn't have the ability to stop it if he'd wanted to, can only wait for the moment -

The Doctor pauses, head lifting incrementally and nostrils flaring as he finally catches the scent. His eyes flick immediately back to the Master, scanning over him in search of more obvious injury. Finding nothing, he inhales again and turns his head, attention fixed on the only concealed part of the room. His puzzled look deepens, and he takes a step towards the cubicle.

"What -?"

" _Don't_."

The Doctor freezes with his hand flat against the cubicle door, looking back at him.

The Master swallows, shakes his head once. "Don't. You don't need to see."

They're frozen in tableau for long seconds, the Master leaning forward in his sudden fervency, the Doctor's eyes wide and fixed on him. His chest heaves as he takes a fortifying breath, and then the door creaks as he pushes at it.

The Master turns his face away, not wanting to see the reaction. He screws his eyes shut, presses tighter against the cold tile of the wall, trying not to listen to the long, loaded silence that seems to go on forever, the strangled sound of revulsion that finally comes after, the halting intake of breath. It feels a fitting confirmation of the depths to which he's lowered himself, made worse somehow for having been seen. He ducks his head against his knees, curls his fingers tight in the brittle strands of his hair.

The cubicle door rattles on its hinges as it's slammed shut again, and he hears the Doctor stumble back from it, towards the door to the bathroom. The Master assumes he's going to keep walking straight out, always so demonstrative in his anger and rejection. But even without looking he knows the Doctor's still here, he can hear the too-heavy breathing still inside the room. He can still smell him.

He darts a glance up, finds the other man's back to him. He's standing with his head bowed, palms against the wall either side of a hand-dryer, leaning forward like it's the only thing holding him up.

"What have you done." It sounds choked from him, voice echoing slightly off the tiles.

The Master pulls at his hair again, bares a bleak smile behind the cover of his wrist. "Told you not to look."

The Doctor turns fast in a moment of outrage, swinging round as he pushes himself off the wall and taking a fitful step forward before he stops himself. His hand rises in an inarticulate, furious gesture, before he drags it silently down over his mouth instead. He stands like that for a moment, visibly trying to regain control, before he speaks again.

"Tell me... Tell me that is not what it looks like. _Please_."

The Master shifts restlessly, lowering his hands flat against the floor and arching his back against the wall, looking away. "You don't understand how much it _hurts_ ," he hears himself saying, the words tumbling out of him unplanned. He wants to whine like an injured thing, but manages to stop just short. "What they've done to me, _the hunger_ , it's unbearable, I can't _think_ with it."

"So you did... _that_?" He gestures helplessly, looking sick. "Were you... Is that what you were going to do to...?" He turns towards where the cruising businessman had disappeared, spinning on the spot, then back to the Master like he can't orientate himself properly. "But... But you..."

It's fascinating, that after all these many centuries of their mutual dislike, the Doctor can still manage to look so completely devastated by a true glimpse of him. And that it still manages to hurt.

The other Time Lord puts a hand back over his mouth, looking upwards like he's desperately trying to figure out what to do now. He blinks a couple of times, then turns his back again and walks a few paces, unable to settle.

The Master gets himself to his feet with some difficulty, pushing back up the wall. He's already dying painfully; frankly he doesn't see why he needs to subject himself to the indignity of the Doctor's disgust while it happens. Something in him has gone numb and closed off - which is mostly a relief - and he intends to make himself scarce while the safety of the feeling lasts. Movements clumsier than he'd like, he makes his way towards the door without bothering to look at the other Time Lord. If he can limp his way back up to surface level, he'll try his luck in one of the nearby construction sites he'd seen earlier.

But as he gets within reach, a sonic hum sounds softly somewhere behind him, and the outer lock snaps shut inches from his outstretched fingertips. The Master goes still, hand hovering in place for a few seconds, before he slowly curls his fingers closed and lets his arm drop. Exhaustion sweeps through him at even the thought of whatever fight the Doctor is looking for. He doesn't want it. He doesn't _care_.

Gaze trailing disinterestedly across the corners of the stark room, he reluctantly turns back to meet it.

Time Lords don't go in much for the notion of afterlives - purposeless, really, for a race who for the most part just keep starting again whenever they die. But the Master is aware of the human concept of purgatory. He'd once had to look into a range of more conventional religions for a white, middle-class MP, after all.

Looking around now, at the dirty-white tiles and the cracked glass and the blood just starting to seep out from under the cubicle door, the smells of death and bleach strong enough to choke - it suddenly feels a fitting description. He stands exactly halfway between dead and alive, unable to regenerate, degraded nearly past his own recognition. Certainly removed from the immortal mythos of a Time Lord. Why not, then, clasp at foreign human concepts instead?

He's in purgatory, and the Doctor has come to stand in judgement of him.

"I can't let you leave like this," the other man says, a rough note of apology in his voice as he tucks the sonic back into his coat. "Not on your own, not until..."

"Until what?" he prompts eventually, when the hesitation goes on too long. Because that's the problem, isn't it? There is no good outcome here, that he can see. Nothing that suits either the strictures of the Doctor's moral code or the demands of his own shattered pride. He tips his head curiously. "Planning on dying in here with me?"

"No," the Doctor says, looking taken aback by the suggestion.

"You could." The Master narrows his eyes with keen interest as a thought occurs. A healthy Time Lord is undoubtedly chock-full of artron energy, pumping away through the blood and bones and meat of him. He wonders vaguely if it would be as... _restorative_ as it sounds.

"Killing me isn't going to help you," the Doctor snaps, clearly reading the deviation his thoughts have taken. "Let me find another way."

"There isn't a way," he dismisses, as tired as he's ever been. "This body is made from death, all it knows how to _do_ is die..."

He's a little surprised they're back on the topic, if he's honest. The good Doctor still trying to _save_ him. He wonders faintly what more it would take, what crime he could possibly commit, before the Doctor concedes at last that perhaps he’s beyond saving. It would appear that being the only option available as company provides far more leeway than he knew.

Somewhere beyond the confines of the room, another train rumbles along the underground tracks. Its passage sends currents of hot air sweeping through the tunnels; he can feel it creep beneath the locked door, pressing on his overworked senses as sweat prickles under the thick material of his clothes. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe deeply, bringing both hands up over his face.

The hunger is screaming at him, competing with the drums for which can howl louder in his head, which will obliterate his reason entirely, break his will. He's going to lose himself to it, he understands with abrupt clarity. He'd prefer that happen beyond the confines of this squalid little room, and far away from its only other occupant.

"Let me out."

"No."

He pulls his hands away from his face, snarling. "Don't think I won't go through you."

"You'll have to."

For a second he is so full with rage he can't breathe with it, frozen, shaking. The uncontrolled energy sparks and snaps in him, apparently responding to the sudden spike of his blood pressure, until it crackles visibly over his skin. He looks down at his hands in surprise, watching the play of light and heat coming off himself as his fingers flex.

He lifts his gaze back to the Doctor, who's staring at him worriedly.

"Don't -"

The Master lunges at him. His hands close on the Doctor's shirt, spinning them in place and forcing him backwards until he slams into the wall beside the door. His knuckles dig hard against his collarbones, energy flashing like lightning between them. The other man lets out a shocked, pained sound, trying to fend him off, but the Master ignores it. He pushes closer, pouring out the destructive flare of his anger.

It must hurt. It must damage him, because the Doctor gasps a ragged breath under his hands, teeth bared, losing his strength as he starts to slump down the wall. The Master can't look away from his eyes, raised helplessly to the Master's face as he holds on to his wrists. Not trying to get him off, now, just clinging. It pulls the Master down with him, following the force of his own fascination until they're both kneeling on the bathroom floor, the Master's hands still fisted in the Doctor's shirt.

"You should have gotten out of the way," he whispers.

The Doctor leans into him, grabbing at his shoulders to keep himself upright. "Not going anywhere," he manages to grit out. "Not without you coming with me."

The Master blinks, squinting at him with genuine curiosity. "How are you... _still_ trying to save me?" It's almost funny. He snorts a heavy laugh, grinning incredulously. "I think it's a bit late, don't you?"

"It's not. Let me try and fix it."

"And what exactly do you have in mind?" he demands. "After all this, you still want us to walk out of here - what - hand-in-hand?!"

"If you like."

The Master wants to slap him for the naive stupidity of the offer. Wants to hurt him, bleed him, _bite_.

It's the last that makes him shove away, getting his feet back under himself and standing, leaving the Doctor to fall forward with a groan of discomfort as he catches himself with his hands flat on the floor. The Master turns to stalk away, prowling the short perimeter of the bathroom like a caged thing, scrubbing his hands agitatedly through his hair.

"And how does that square with your precious conscience?" he asks sceptically, picking his way across the crimson geometric pattern now oozing between the tiles.

There's a conspicuous silence. He turns to look.

"...It doesn't," the other Time Lord eventually mutters at the floor, barely audible. He slowly pushes himself up enough that he can sit back on his heels, hands resting in his lap. He looks tired and sad, dark eyes slightly averted. "It doesn't matter. I'll do it anyway."

" _Why_?"

"You honestly have to ask?"

The Master sneers. He remembers this speech well enough. "Going to remind me again that it's just the two of us, now?" Without consciously deciding to move, suddenly he's crossing the bathroom again. He drops back down on his knees in front of the other man like his strings have been cut, spilled water on the tiles seeping up through his jeans. Reaching out, he closes his hands in the Doctor's shirt and drags them closer, so they're kneeling up in front of each other. The other man shakes his head faintly, trying half-heartedly to pry his fingers loose, but the Master refuses to release him so easily.

"And whose fault is that, Doctor?"

Dark eyes flinch shut as the accusation finds its mark, and the Master is treated to a glimpse of all that exquisite shame rising to the surface.

"That's not... That isn't why..."

The Master twists his hands in the cotton shirt, wanting to ruin the buttoned-up neatness of him. "Why come looking again? Enjoyed your stay with me so much last time?" He smirks, lip turning up disdainfully.

The Doctor's eyes flick solemnly over his face. "I needed to see if it was really you. I wanted to - to try again. Ask if you'd -"

He shoves, hard enough that the Doctor loses his balance and topples backwards, landing gracelessly on his arse with his back against the door. There's a split second where he just looks up at the Master with wary, wide-eyed shock. It's like being tested, and the Master has nowhere near the willpower left to stop himself springing forward after him. He bypasses the brief scrabble of limbs that try to keep him off, and then he's clambering over the other man, settling his weight atop him to keep him pinned down, hands dragging at the Doctor's lapels as he makes himself comfortable in his lap. He's expecting more of a struggle, a fight, but the Doctor puts up no real resistance. He looks more bemused by his sudden predicament than anything, trainers sliding on the tiles as he tries to get purchase to sit up properly.

"And what about now?" the Master hisses. "Now that you've _seen_? Am I everything you were hoping for?"

The Doctor shifts beneath him, reaching up to hold loosely onto one of his wrists. "Stop. Listen. It'll... It'll be okay. I'll -"

He barks a laugh, if only to cover the flash of outrage that goes through him at the audacity of the misplaced comfort. "You can stop that. I hereby _release_ you from your saviour duties." He ignores the errant thought that wonders what exactly the Doctor will choose to do, if not save him.

"It's not duty!" the other man protests incredulously. He pauses, looking down at himself and then around the bathroom, and makes a helpless gesture. "Does any of this look like what I'm _supposed_ to be doing?!"

The Master blinks, brought up short. He covers it with a scowl. "I don't want your help."

The Doctor hesitates. He manages to sit up a bit further, eyes raised to his. "...What if I want yours?"

Now that is genuinely quite funny. The Master's mouth curls in a smile, amusement bubbling in his throat, and he shows his teeth as it escapes. He leans back, stretching his arms out either side of himself like he's on display. "Well. _Clearly_ you are in luck!"

"Please. There's more happening than you and me tonight -"

"Should have known you'd only come slumming for me when I have something you _need_."

"No, not like that -"

"And what were you hoping I'd help you with?" He darts forward again, taking hold of the Doctor's tie and pointedly adjusting it, keeping tight hold afterwards. "Were you going to ask if I'd do something nasty and bloody for you, so you can keep your hands clean?"

"I - No." The Doctor looks surprised by the suggestion, like the thought hadn't occurred - although the Master knows better by now than to take him at such obvious face value.

"No wonder you're so eager to 'fix' me."

The Doctor sits forward, a look of sudden intensity on his face. "That's not why. If you don't believe anything else I say, believe that I don't want to watch you die again. I can't. Regardless of whether you help me in return."

The Master sneers. "So selfless."

"The opposite," the Doctor retorts immediately.

The go quiet, watching each other in unhappy standoff.

Then the reality of the situation seems to hit the other man anew, as he lets his gaze flick over the Master in frank amazement. "You _died_ ," he says again, like he's just remembered it. He inhales sharply. "You wouldn't regenerate. Why wouldn't you regenerate?"

The Master looks away. Confirmation, then, that the Doctor still doesn't understand the nature of the conflict between them.

"I'm... I'm glad you're back."

It sounds small and childish and astonishingly sincere. The Master swallows, not sure how to take it. "I'm almost certain you're not supposed to be," he points out in the end, conscious of the visceral awfulness that's pressing in against their small bubble of personal space even now.

Apparently the Doctor doesn't have an answer for that, because he nods faintly but doesn't retract the statement.

Looking like he's very much expecting retaliation for each wary movement, the other man reaches for him again. He tugs carefully at the Master's sleeve, and then his upper arm, his shoulder, urging him closer. The Master's so surprised that he doesn't immediately protest. More confident, the Doctor pulls him forward against him, insistent hands curling against the back of his hoodie like he's impervious to the dirt and the blood and the sick _wrongness_ of him.

The Master abruptly finds himself with his chin tucked against the Doctor's shoulder, mouth and nose against the bare skin above his collar. He freezes, astonished by the audacity of the gesture, the thoughtless disregard for boundaries or even self-preservation. The Doctor seems oblivious to his reaction. He bends his knees up, so that the Master slides firmer into his lap, and practically wraps around him in his sudden show of need.

The Master's still got hold of the other man's tie, can use it to hold him in place, if he wants to. He parts his mouth, just slightly, and inhales. Tastes soap and sweat and the faint musk of adrenaline. The Doctor goes tense beneath him as he feels him do it, but he offers no protest, holding the Master tight against himself as though in defiance of instinct. The Master wants to hiss incredulity, even as he feels the hungry pull of temptation. He pushes his face closer into the warmth, pressing the flat of his teeth and tongue against the beat of pulses. The Doctor's fingers dig sharply into his back, and he makes a noise that still isn't protest as the Master tastes him.

They stay just like that for a few lingering moments, neither of them entirely sure how to proceed. Then, hesitantly, the Doctor's hands drop to his waist. The Master mouths more insistently at his neck, at the delicate skin behind his ear, until the Doctor's breath hitches. He eases back, enough that he can carefully drag his teeth along the line of the Doctor's jaw, not quite biting. It feels like trying to resist swallowing honey already on his tongue. His hands come up, fingers curling at the back of the Doctor's neck to hold him in place, and he turns his head so his lips graze across the corner of his mouth.

"Wait."

The Doctor stills him, barely, nudging the bridge of his nose against the Master's cheek just enough to preserve an inch of space between their lips. He's got his eyes closed, leaning hard against him. The Master can feel the breeze of his unsteady breaths, wants to steal them directly from his mouth.

"You don't... You don't have to." It's suffused with guilty reluctance, and the Master knows with certainty that the Doctor is thinking of the human who'd wanted to use him. He feels a sudden twist of desire at the thought of the Doctor's moral discomfort, the impossible knots his conscience must be in right now.

"Do you want me to?" he murmurs, sliding his thumb down the front of the Doctor's throat so he can feel him swallow.

"...Yeah."

The Master pauses, reflecting on his own current sorry state, and has to ask. "Even like this?"

The Doctor's hands tighten on his waist briefly. "Yes." He sounds ashamed.

The Master hums satisfaction at the confession. It doesn't occur to him to doubt, not with the palpable guilt coming off the other man, or the way his hands close in desperation in the Master's clothes. He tips his head, lets his stubble scratch across the Doctor's cheek as he moves them together, tantalisingly close to what he wants.

"But it doesn't matter," the Doctor whispers, earnest, like he's trying to convince him. "You don't have to do anything like this, I'll help anyway. Let me try."

It takes all his dwindling willpower to use his grip on the Doctor's tie to push him back enough that they're looking at each other. He can see it, clear as anything: that he only has to say the word and the Doctor will scramble to play hero for him, kill himself trying to repair impossible damage, even after everything that's gone between them. Even after what he's done. It's incomprehensible. It's _weak_.

He leans forward and kisses him, as much to see if the Doctor can stand to let him as because he wants to. He's expecting hesitance, some last grasp at propriety, some flicker of repulsion maybe - not for the other man to surge helplessly up against him, grabbing at his hips like he can't bear to let go. The Master drags a surprised breath, unbalanced, burying his fingers in the mess of dark hair and pulling until it has to hurt. He accidentally moans when the Doctor opens for him, letting him inside, letting him taste. It's reckless. It's _insane_. They both know what he's done; both know the base, animal survival he's been reduced to; the instincts that are clamouring in the deep parts of his brain even now.

But either the Doctor is truly oblivious to the risk he's taking or he trusts the Master's restraint far more than he rightfully should, because he just goes on making little sounds of want right into his mouth, unresisting, heedless of the dangerous flush of heat that rises in him in response. The Master's hand is on the Doctor's throat and he presses, using it to hold him off a second, hold him steady, so he can hiss a breath and grasp at his rapidly fraying self-control. He has to lean back, lean away, before he dares open his eyes again. The Doctor looks like every hedonistic fantasy he's ever indulged, pinned beneath him. He looks like prey without survival instinct.

It's probably obscene, he thinks vaguely; this display of need from both of them, surrounded as they are by the evidence of his degradation. It might be the worst way they've ever wanted each other, here in the unwitnessed confines of purgatory.

He leans forward again, every movement tightly controlled. The Doctor seems to sense it, at last, and stays as still as he's able as the Master slides a hand up into his hair, cautiously nudging their open mouths together. He feels the other man draw a breath and can't help but chase after it, dipping his tongue inside indulgently, wondering if the Doctor can taste the blood on his teeth.

"Master..."

It's the first time anyone's said his real name since... well, since the last time he was alive, murmured softly right into his mouth like it’s being returned to him. The Master goes still, tightening his grip in the Doctor's hair. Their lips still brush together, sharing heavy breaths back and forth.

"Say it again," he instructs, after a moment.

The Doctor's eyes open, unfocused with proximity. He pauses, running the flat of his palms down the Master's thighs where he kneels in his lap.

" _Master_."

It's quiet but clear, intimate, and the Master shivers as he hears it. It feels like the first thing he's recognised of himself since he woke, ruined and in pain.

"Come with me," the Doctor whispers, kissing the corner of his mouth with odd sweetness. "We can go together, we can go see - everything, anything you want. I'll take you."

The Master regards him coolly, unmoved by the offer, or by the now chaste affection being brushed across his cheek. It's a far cry from the threat of captivity he'd been presented with last time, and for that reason alone not to be trusted. But it's not what holds his curiosity. Despite his earlier warning, the Doctor is still trying to play hero; spinning images of taking him away to safety and comfort. He makes it sound almost picturesque. And the Master has no tolerance at all for picturesque.

He wants instead to see if the other man will follow him down into the dirt and the ruin and the depravity; see if he'll tarnish himself with shame and need just to know what it feels like - or if his heroism is more the remote kind; pristine and untouched by the mess the Master has made of himself.

So he reaches down between them and presses his palm firm between the other man's legs, feeling the clear evidence of his arousal. The Doctor immediately startles guiltily, scrambling beneath him as he grabs at the Master's wrist.

"What are you -? Stop - stop, that's not -"

The Master kisses his mouth again, forceful, desperate for him to shut up. He doesn't want to hear whatever whinging, token protests the Doctor feels the need to make to excuse getting off on this; doesn't want to hear himself pitied, or the suggestion that he in any way occupies the weaker position here. He wants this, wants to feel like a person again, even if it's only for a few frantic seconds. He wants to be in _control_ of something.

He rubs his palm against the hardening length, thrilled by the sound it elicits from the Doctor, and the way his hand curls tight in the Master's sleeve and gradually stops trying to interfere with what he's doing. Pulling away enough that he can watch, he tugs quickly at the other man's belt, dragging it open while the Doctor swears and squirms as if he can't decide whether or not he's trying to get away. The expression he's wearing is almost faint panic, brows pinched as he stares up the Master, legs spread underneath him like permission. When the Master finally takes hold of his cock, he throws his head back with a thud against the door, eyes shut tight and teeth bared.

The Master loses his own breath a little, mouth parting as he starts to stroke, narrow gaze trailing clinically over each new reaction he drags forth. The Doctor can't seem to keep still, his hand landing briefly against the tiles, the Master's thigh, up against his chest. Apparently he can't decide if he's pushing or clinging either, movements uncoordinated as he bucks his hips up with what little leverage he has. His eyes keep darting between the Master's face and down at where he's touching him, a flush of mortified colour creeping up the sides of his neck.

The Master leans down to bite him there, sharp enough that he earns a shocked cry of hurt and fingers digging into his arm. "Is this you using me, Doctor?" he murmurs, pleased with the little thrill of saying the words. He rocks forward in the other man's lap, so the Doctor's erection is pressed tight between the V of his legs. "Taking _advantage_."

The other man's breath hitches, and he turns his face against the Master's shoulder. "Don't."

Unseen, the Master grins. The Doctor never has understood that he likes this version of him best. It's so much more honest.

Hesitant, like he's still reluctant to be seen encouraging anything, the Doctor's hands settle against his lower back. His fingertips graze back and forth over the hem of the Master's clothing, and then carefully slip beneath to move over the groove of his spine, the slight dip of dimples in his flesh. Caught off guard, the Master jerks against him with a grunt, surprised by his own visceral reaction.

He's not - He can't - He isn't sure he's _functioning_ fully, as he is right now, but it still feels good. It feels intimate, shocks of sensation shooting through him as the Doctor touches the places where bright energy sears through his nervous system. The Master arches against him, groaning despite himself, unsure if he's in pleasure or pain. The other man won't look away, dark eyes wide and fascinated, panting slightly as he sneaks his hand further up under the Master's shirt to push his fingers into the muscles of his back.

Growling, the Master shoves him back harder against the door, readjusting his own position over him so he can grip tighter, jerk faster. The Doctor lets out a noise of near-protest, even as he lifts his hips to meet him. The smell of sex is overwhelming between them now, covering everything else and igniting the most atavistic core of his brain. The sensations of hunger and arousal and greed are so twisted together that the Master can barely decide how to sate himself; knows only that he won't be denied. He twists his wrist, fingers sliding through the leaking wet of pre-come and smearing it down the length of the other man's cock, jacking his fist ruthlessly. He can't stop watching, fixated by the lust-blown, half-lidded gaze locked on his own, the thought of the Doctor's complicity in letting him take anything he wants.

"Come on," he instructs, breathless with his own eager impatience. "Do it. Come for me.”

The Doctor squeezes his eyes closed, nearly flinching. His hand scrabbles suddenly at the Master's hoodie, clutching at it to drag him down harder into his lap, ducking forward to hide his face against the Master's throat as he starts to come. He makes a choked sound, breath gusting hot against sweat-damp skin, and then shudders helplessly as he spills into the Master's hand. It splashes the already stained hoodie and the Doctor's clean shirt, and the Master bites his lip hard as a spike of arousal goes straight through him. He rocks forward with useless instinct, beyond frustrated, and pushes his mouth against the mess of dark hair as he tries to get himself back under tenuous control. Can't quite stop himself indulging in the evidence of what he's done, stroking through the slick of come until the liquid sound is obvious and the Doctor claws at him in over-sensitised protest.

Eventually he relents and they go still, leaning against each other, the only sounds in the room their harsh breathing and the distant rumble of underground trains. The Doctor's hands rest on his hips, and after a while he lifts his head enough that the bridge of his nose bumps gently against the underside of the Master's jaw. The Master sneers slightly, but indulges the contact for another few seconds. He feels strangely spent himself, as though he's expended more energy than he intended. The unnatural hunger racks through him again, and he realises he's only managed to make it worse.

The Doctor must feel him flinch, because he sits back quickly, studying him in concern. "I - Are you okay? I'm sorry, we shouldn't have... You didn't need..." Flushing at the awkwardness of it, he hastily puts himself away and refastens belt and trousers with jerky movements.

The Master takes advantage of his brief distraction to wipe off the mess that's still on his hand across the Doctor's shirt, smirking faintly at the wince it gets him. Then, with effort, he sits back and manages to plant his feet, pushing himself up off the other man until he's standing over him. He tips his head back tiredly, sighing, and then looks down in reluctant consideration. The Doctor's still sprawled against the bottom of the door, disheveled and slightly wary as he peers up at him in turn.

The Master wordlessly holds his hand out.

The Doctor blinks. His gaze flicks curiously between his open palm and the Master's face, like he's trying to see the trick. He shifts, bringing one knee up, and then with a cautious frown slowly reaches to take hold.

The Master hauls him upright, a show of strength to prove he isn't completely pathetic in his current state. The Doctor braces against him as he rises, hand lingering on his shoulder. He looks like he can't quite figure out what's happening, but he waits curiously.

The Master still isn't sure he wants to do this. He hates even the thought of it, like he's inflating the other man's ego just by allowing it. Letting him _win_.

"Go on then," he dares, almost spitefully. " _Fix_ me."

The Doctor's eyes immediately fall closed, and the grip on the Master's shoulder slides up to the side of his neck, thumbing over the corner of his jaw. "Thank you."

The Master jerks his face away, irritated. "Don't start. It was sex, not an invitation to paw at me." It's easier to snap that than trying to parse his own rush of nerves at the gratitude.

The other man finally steps back in concession, awkwardness radiating off him as he shoves his hands into his pockets and looks down at his trainers. "Fine. The TARDIS isn't far. Ready to go?"

He doesn't dignify that with an answer.

The Doctor nods and casts a last unhappy glance over the bathroom, not able to fully conceal the flicker of revulsion that shows in the turn of his mouth as he seems to remember where he is. The Master watches with interest.

"Second thoughts already?"

The other Time Lord blinks at him, caught out. He ducks his head and doesn't say anything, instead turning back to face the door and reaching into the inside pocket of his coat for the sonic. As he does, the Master's surprised to feel his free hand bump against his own, little finger hooking loosely round one of his.

The Master raises a dubious eyebrow, and can't quite keep the cynical expression off his face as he glances down at the contact. "You're really committing to this hand-in-unloveable-hand idea, aren't you?"

The Doctor looks across at him, mouth tipping in a sad sort of smile. "Yeah. Something like that."

He grips tighter, and unlocks the door, and the Master allows himself to be led back out into the world.


End file.
